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BELOW THE EARLY REVIEWS THAT THE NYRB RAN OF HANDKE'S EARLY WORK BEFORE HE RAN AFOUL OF THE IDIOT D ENRIGHT AND J.S. MARCUS...

The New York Review of Books

June 23, 1977

Review

Play It Again, Franz

By Michael Wood

Nonsense and Happiness

by Peter Handke, translated by Michael Roloff

Urizen Books, 93 pp., .95 (paper)

A Moment of True Feeling

by Peter Handke, translated by Ralph Manheim

Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 144 pp., .95

Three by Peter Handke

by Peter Handke

Avon Books, 298 pp., .25 (paper)

We have heard a good deal, from Thomas Mann as well as from John Barth and Harold Bloom, about the lateness of the modern artist, and no doubt the sensible response to such a proposition is to ask who is holding the watch. Who sets the time for these feasts or lessons or performances which are always ending just when our representatives arrive? But there is a form of lateness which is familiar to us all. It is possible, for example, to fall in love and find the language you need already in use, shabby and dog-eared from misapplication, and there is a celebrated passage in Madame Bovary where Flaubert, irritated by a character who doesn't understand that cliches may reflect the most passionate sincerity, allows himself the sort of complaint we normally see only in his letters:

He could not distinguish, this experienced man, the dissimilarity of sentiment beneath the sameness of expression. As if the fullness of feelings did not sometimes spill out through the emptiest of metaphors, since no one, ever, can give the exact measure of his needs, or ideas, or sorrows, and since human speech is like a cracked cauldron on which we beat out tunes for dancing bears, when we wish to attract the sympathy of the stars.

Cliche has colonized quite a bit of new territory since Flaubert, and the most eloquent language will become tired if it is made to travel all over the place. A great part of the gift of Peter Handke, a much-acclaimed young Austrian novelist and playwright, lies in his sensitivity to this situation. Yesterday's lyrics are today's advertisements, and when the central character in Handke's novel A Moment of True Feeling crosses the Pont Mirabeau in Paris, he recalls the obligatory line from Apollinaire: +Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine / Et nos amours / Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne.+ But he is too late. A poster describing high-rise apartment buildings is there before him, saying: +Seen from the Pont Mirabeau, Paris is a poem.+ Even the small, strange details of a surrounding scene, the working materials of an observant writer Ã‚Âa woman wearing odd shoes, another woman carrying a cocker spaniel and cryingÃ‚Âevoke in this novel only a feeling of dejaÃ¢â‚¬Å¡ vuw dejaÃ¢â‚¬Å¡ vu in an old movie. +He felt,+ Handke says of his character, +like the Prisoner of Disneyland.+ When someone suggests that a writer might escape from this Disneyland by concentrating on the +inexhaustible riches of everyday life,+ the suggestion itself can be made only in a cliche: the inexhaustible riches of everyday life.

+We behave as if being alone were a problem,+ Handke says in Nonsense and Happiness, a book of rambling meditative poems. +Perhaps it's an idee fixe.+ Perhaps it is the idee fixe of a culture which has managed to package even alienation, to turn it into the necessary accouterment of any educated, self-respecting, disaffected middle-class life. +Hey,+ Handke says in another poem in the same book,

Hey, you at the street corner:

In the meantime we know all about

the loneliness of modern man.

In the meantime: somewhere between Dostoevsky and Midnight Cowboy, between Kafka and Last Tango in Paris. Nausea travels fast, and indeed A Moment of True Feeling is so blatant a remake of Sartre's La Nausee that I wonder whether even Handke knows quite what he is doing.

He knows, of course, all about Flaubert's cracked cauldron. His great successesÃ‚ÂA Sorrow Beyond Dreams, Short Letter, Long Farewell, both reprinted, along with the more programmatic and less satisfactory Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick, in Three by Peter Handke [*] Ã‚Âare the crisp and mournful tunes he gets out of it. He knows that one can exploit a packaged despair even as one complains about the packaging. +I had been enjoying all the poses of alienation available to me,+ he has a character say in Short Letter, Long Farewell. And in A Sorrow Beyond Dreams he writes,

Ordinarily, I start with myself and my own headaches; in the course of my writing, I detach myself from them more and more, and then in the end I ship myself and my headaches off to market as a commodityÃ‚Â¦.

But in spite of this knowledge and these successes, there is a lot of flat and unreconstructed existentialist orthodoxy in Handke, a whole world of threadbare thought which he is not attacking but merely bathing in. Life is absurd, and we know this because at certain moments its consolatory fictions of meaning splinter, and senselessness is everywhere. Senselessness, Sinnlosigkeit (and occasionally Unsinnigkeit), which Michael Roloff translates as nonsense and Ralph Manheim translates as inanity: the condition of not making any sense.

So you don't take yourself seriously in company

but the nonsense is too real,

and therefore unbearable.

The face turns ugly with non- sense

+Don't wake up now!+ I thought

and held my breath

But it was too late

Nonsense had struck again.

A bombing attack of nonsense on the world:

right behind the housewall the earth breaks off into whirlpools of

the undefinable.

Gregor Keuschnig, in A Moment of True Feeling, has a bad dream one night and stumbles excitedly through the two following days, feeling both violent and vulnerable, exposed to life's inanity: +nothing made sense.+ +How steadfastly they go through with it,+ he thinks of other people. And at another point: +How human they all seemed in comparison with him.+ His own life now appears to him as a complicated fraud:

From today on, he thought, I shall be leading a double life. No, no life at all: neither my usual life nor a new one, for I shall only be pretending to live my usual life, and my new life will consist solely in pretending to live as usual. I can't conceive of continuing to live as I've lived up until now, but no more can I conceive of living as someone else lived or lives. I can't live like anybody; at the most I can go on living +like myself.+

He worries about death and his dwindling future, and at one point he wants to +howl with hopelessness.+

The name Gregor, like the name Joseph in The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick, is no doubt meant to recall Kafka, and we may remember that Gregor Samsa, who woke up one morning to find he had turned into a cockroach, had passed, like Gregor Keuschnig, a night of +unquiet dreams.+ There are enough mentions of nausea in A Moment of True Feeling to indicate Handke's awareness of his other major predecessor in the exploration of this treacherous and alarming ground. Handke has made Sartre's lonely protagonist a married man, with a child, and a job at the Austrian embassy, and he has placed him in 1970's Paris; takes him to a press conference, has him give a dinner party for an Austrian writer, where he cracks up, takes off his clothes, and smears his face with stew.

But the sense of Sartre revisited seems more powerful than Handke wants it to be. Kafka is alluded to, but Sartre is systematically echoed, and I wonder whether in fact Handke has not read La Nausee lately, and is for that reason borrowing from it so freely, with reckless and not very conscious abandon. Or it may simply be that Sartre has covered this ground so well that every excursion into it will look like an imitation. The discovery that life doesn't make any sense, while not exactly a piece of historical news, may still be an intense private experience, and an experience of this kind appears in all of Handke's works that I have read. He often motivates it by a plot, gives it an objective cause or correlativeÃ‚Âthe loss of a job, the death of a mother, a fear that your wife is out to kill you, and even, in A Moment of True Feeling, a prehistory of fits of terrorÃ‚Âbut the experience really seems prior to these occasions, a form of anxiety or metaphysical unease simply waiting for its chance to spring out into the world and devour everything that looks like a meaning.

The trouble with this experience for a writer is that, authentic or not in life, it has been worked over in literature, and not only by Sartre; and this literature in turn has been raided by the various agencies of our culture, so that it would not come as a surprise to see references to Kafka or Sartre on posters advertising the delights of Prague or Le Havre. Get away from it all. Visit the scenes of two of modernity's most famous losses of meaning. Play it again, Franz. None of this diminishes anyone's actual, lived anxiety, of course, but it does make the experience harder to write about.

There are intelligent and lucid passages in both A Moment of True Feeling and Nonsense and Happiness. Gregor's breakdown is described as +a complicated fracture of the mind,+ a medical metaphor for a spiritual disaster: you can break your soul (Handke's word is Seelenbruch) as easily as you can break a leg. In the poems flies die +obtrusively+ and cats sniff in mausoleums, activated, it seems, by a complementarity in the words themselves (Katz and Maus). But the poems generally are pretty slack and meandering, and they tend, unfortunately, to rob the novel of some of the benefits of doubt. Gregor seems less a character than a prolongation of the poems, a man who is being indulged rather than examined. Nausea here is a little too comfortable, and neither Handke nor his protagonists seem to care very much how cracked the cauldron is as they rattle out a handful of established existentialist tunes: +I'd like to be a character in a novel+; +This face is not mine+; +Words don't mean a thing+; +Isn't this an ugly day?+; and +How long has this been going on?+

Still, the cauldron is cracked, and apart from the infinitely variable strategies of self-consciousnessÃ‚Âall those plays and poems and novels about cracked cauldrons which make up so much of modern literatureÃ‚Âthere appear to be only three things we can do with it. We can play very modest tunes, quiet and careful numbers which the cracks in the cauldron can't really spoil; we can play whatever we feel like playing and hope something will survive the cacophony; and we can try to make the cracks themselves sing in some way. Peter Handke exercises the first and the third of these options with great skillÃ‚Âfrequently in Short Letter, Long Farewell, consistently in A Sorrow Beyond Dreams.

Handke's modest tunes are those of a patient, stylish observer of the world. Here is a piece of displaced autobiography from Short Letter, Long Farewell:

It occurred to me that for a long time my own vision of the world around me had been twisted: when I tried to describe something, I never knew what it looked like; I remembered only its anomalies, and if there weren't any, I made them up. All the people I described were giants with birthmarks and falsetto voicesÃ‚Â¦.

Only later, Handke's character continues, after he +really experienced something,+ did he +begin to see the world with something more than a malignant first glance.+ What takes the place of distortion and malignance is a very simple and direct form of care for small gestures and traits. A poem in Nonsense and Happiness remembers that Handke looked askance at his mother because she moved her head in time to a Beatles record, and the precision of the memory catches a whole dimension of a relationship: a movement and a response to that movement are all that is needed, and we are out of the Disneyland of merely bizarre details. A Sorrow Beyond Dreams, a brief memoir recounting the life and suicide of Handke's mother, is full of discreet, slightly eccentric, always sharply focused listsÃ‚Âlists, as if shedding a more complex syntax would help to stave off lying and allow the world as experienced to speak for itself:

Was there, then, nothing more? Had that been all? Masses for the dead, childhood diseases, drawn curtains, correspondence with old acquaintances of carefree days, making herself useful in the kitchen and in the fields, running out now and then to move the child into the shade.

She indulged in the following luxuries: a seat in the ninth row at the movies, followed by a glass of wine and soda water; a one- or two-schilling bar of Bensdorp chocolate to give the children the next morning; once a year, a bottle of homemade eggnog; on occasional winter Sundays she would whip up the cream she had saved during the week by keeping the milk pot between the two panes of the double windows overnight.

Here is Handke's record of his mother's leaving home, quite young, to work in a hotel; it is a rich miniature of social and linguistic history:

No other course was open to her; scullery maid, chambermaid, assistant cook, head cook. +People will always eat.+ In the photographs, a flushed face, glowing cheeks, arm in arm with bashful, serious-looking girl friends; she was the life of the party; self-assured gaiety (+Nothing can happen to me+); exuberant, sociable, nothing to hide.

City life: short skirts (+knee huggers+), high-heeled shoes, permanent wave, earrings, unclouded joy of life. Even a stay abroad! Chambermaid in the Black Forest, flocks of admirers, kept at a distance! Dates, dancing, entertainment, fun; hidden fear of sex (+They weren't my type+). Work, pleasure; heavy-hearted, lighthearted; Hitler had a nice voice on the radio. The homesickness of those who can't afford anything; back at the Hotel du Lac (+I'm doing the bookkeeping now+); glowing references (Ã‚Â¦has shown aptitude and willingness to learn. So conscientious, frank, and cheerful that we find it hard. She is leaving our establishment of her own free will+). Boat rides, all-night dances, never tired.

This last quotation also illustrates Handke's other option, or at least one way of getting some music out of the cracks in the cauldron. Like Flaubert, Handke collects quotations (+People will always eat,+ +They weren't my type+) and italicizes cliches (admirers, distance). Unlike Flaubert, he does this out of affection for his subject, as a means of approaching a life that will be lost if you don't write about it (because it will simply be forgotten), but may also be lost if you do write about it (because you will dress it up in fine, self-observing phrases).

Cliche, frequently the writer's most recalcitrant enemy, is seen as a form of memory, what Handke calls +the linguistic deposit of man's social experience.+ It is important, of course, to avoid fussiness or parody in the use of such language. +The essential is to avoid mere quotations; even when the sentences look quoted, they must never allow one to forget that they deal with someone who to my mind at least is distinct.+ To his mind; and to our minds. The individual shares a history with others, and can be remembered through this communion.

When Handke's mother, in postwar Berlin, becomes +a city person, adequately described in the words: tall, slim, dairk-haired,+ she has stepped into a stereotype, and of course she is all but imprisoned in it. A life of her own, adjectives of her own, would be better. But how many of us really rise to that, and how often? Handke shows us how to find the glitter of truth in dull-looking commonplaces, and his tall, slim, dark-haired mother is more alive to me than countless well-described figures in more +original+ novels and biographies. She becomes an emanation of the Forties without ceasing to be a private, if scarcely visible, self.

It is late, then; and language regularly falls short of our needs. But we should be careful not to pretend that it is later than it is, and even the weariest language will point us back to the world if we know how to read it. Naive and old-fashioned as the thought may seem, Handke's best writing appears when he has patently +really experienced something+: the break-up of a marriage in Short Letter, Long Farewell, the death of his mother in A Sorrow Beyond Dreams. In these cases, a general metaphysical anxiety not only finds an objective correlative but is refined and specified by a demanding reality. I interpret this to mean not that Handke is sincere in these works and half-faking in the others, or that the others don't rest on experience at all, but that his more urgent and more localized experiences caused him to put a pressure on his language which he does not always apply. Language points to the world, and the world begs for language. If you have any talent you will get some sort of tune out of the cracked cauldron; but beyond that, the quality of the tunes must depend on the depth of your need for the music.

Notes

[*] All three of these books were reviewed by Frank Kermode, NYR, May 1, 1975.

I shall say little about Mr. Gilman's instructive, well-written, and unaffected book, because I want to write about Peter Handke, whose plays and other works have made him perhaps the most interesting young writer in German today. This is in itself a tribute to Mr. Gilman, for it was his chapter on Handke that compelled me to read that author for the first time.

The making of modern drama had to be achieved in the teeth of powerful opposing forces; the theater has been for centuries a bourgeois stronghold, and one would expect it to change more slowly than other literary forms. Yet Gilman has to begin his account with BUEchner in the 1830s, a good while before any comparable figure appeared in other arts. It is true that the struggle to +renew drama, to combat its tendency to inertia and self-repetition,+ had constantly to be recommenced, for example by all the authorsÃ‚ÂIbsen, Strindberg, Chekhov, Pirandello, Brecht, Beckett, and Handke whom Gilman writes about in this book. Still, there is a paradox here, and the only way to resolve it is to consider that avant-gardes thrive, and only thrive, on opposition, and the opposition comes closest to being permanent in the theater, where, for whatever reasons, the force of convention powerfully tends to reassert itself.

Gilman's authors are in time and by nationality a scattered lot, and he isn't of course claiming that they represent a concerted movement or development. What they have in common is that each renewed the assault on conventions that had come to look like nature. This common quality is admirably documented by Gilman, and there are valuable accounts of individual plays. The essays are brief, sometimes too brief, and some important works are given rather short shrift; but at his best Gilman makes a virtue of brevity, as in his essay on Ibsen; I would have liked more discussion of the last three plays, but as an account of Ibsen's transformation of the piece bien faite into an instrument of moral revelation, a transformation not fully achieved before The Master Builder, this essay is useful and fresh.

Gilman finds himself in enthusiastic sympathy with Strindberg, and says many warm and perceptive things about him, his risk-taking and his bold anticipations of much later experiment; but this does not mean that he cannot value just as highly the reticence of Chekhov. It is central to his argument that Tolstoy was wrong about Chekhov, for he failed to understand that drama is not +a provider of imaginary solutions to real dilemmas+ but of +analogues to our lives.+ Gilman has less admiration for Brecht but still sees him as a kind of saint of the new theater of thought and enlarged consciousness.

The stage is always trying to throw off its staginess, even if in the process it disintegrates the idea of personality, as Hofmannsthal thought Brecht did; in undermining its own illusion it deprives many other illusions of their future. Peter Handke therefore comes in quite properly at the end of Gilman's book (there might also have been a word on Pinter). He treats him as a dramatist, though at thirty-three Handke is also the author of several novellas, a volume of stories, a collection of poems, and other books. The better part of all this work is already available in translation, a state of affairs as satisfactory as it is unusual. I think that anybody who gives Handke a fair reading will have to agree that there was nothing in the least absurd about putting him in a book with such formidable predecessors, though I'm not sure I can wholly accept what Gilman says about him.

Handke is by origin a small-town upper-working-class Austrian Catholic. He studied law and at once turned to writing. His first novel, The Hornets, appeared in 1966, when he was very young, and the plays which made his name, Offending the Audience (or Public Insult) and Self-Accusation, belong to the same year. In 1967 appeared another novel, The Peddler, and a short play, Calling for Help (or Distress Calls), of which a translation appeared in The Drama Review (Fall, 1970).

Kaspar, his most important play so far, followed in 1968; it is translated, together with the first two plays, in Kaspar and Other Plays (Farrar, Straus & Giroux/Noonday, 1972). Quodlibet and My Foot, My Tutor, a mime-play (TDR, Fall, 1970), came out in 1969, as did the novel The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick. The Ride Across Lake Constance (in Contemporary German Theater, edited by Michael Roloff, Avon, 1972) belongs to 1971. Since then there have been two more narratives, Short Letter, Long Farewell and A Sorrow Beyond Dreams (both 1972), and a play called They Are Dying Out, which I have not read, that followed in 1973. The poems were published in 1969.

Handke's photograph turns up here and there; clean-shaven and bending over a pinball machine, or hairy in jeans, or wearing shades and trying to look like Paul McCartney. He is said to be, or to have been, +into rock,+ and he certainly is into old movies. John Ford seems to be a special hero, honest and generous in a wise old American way. None of this means, of course, that he is not an intellectual. He is, I'm glad to say, sympathetic to the idea that he can help people to understand what he is up to by talking about it. I had better try, in a very provisional way, to say what I think he is up to.

Here I deviate a little from Mr. Gilman, who, rightly observing that Handke is in some way a philosophical dramatist, finds him to be very like Wittgenstein. It is true that Wittgenstein called philosophy +a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language,+ and that Handke shows himself to be very suspicious of language as the means by which we are induced to accept +reality+; indeed he sometimes hates it and speaks of its +idiocy.+ But these similarities, even if not misleading, are not sufficient to justify the conclusion that +nothing could be closer in spirit+ to Wittgenstein than Handke, and I am not surprised to learn that the dramatist has himself rejected the comparison.

Wittgenstein was concerned to avoid errors arising from a failure to understand the workings of language. This is not the same as to wish to +learn to be nauseated by language,+ as Handke says he does, and as he says we should if we are to achieve consciousness. But Handke's theory is not fully articulated, and there is excuse for confusion. He believes language to be an agent of social oppression and mystification, so there is a political aspect to his theory; but Handke seems to me less interested in this for its own sake than as the symptom of a more radical distress. Language makes us sick, perhaps makes us wicked (his theory is really quite Rousseauistic), and if we can find a single dominant motive in Handke's work it is that as a writer he is always having to love what he abhors. The consequence is that he is a poet above all else, and almost always in a state of fright or horror.

I doubt, for this and other reasons, whether it can be right to argue, as Gilman does, that the language of his plays is meant to be a sort of homeopathic cure for the ills language has inflicted upon us, an agent of resurrection or health. In an interview with Artur Joseph, partially translated in the issue of TDR already mentioned, Handke does make a few cautious gestures of this kind, saying that a moral theater could only belong to a new social order and that meanwhile one can show +through revelation in language+ that we do not have to accept the present one as given. But this is clearly not his prime interest, although he holds that in breaking up the conventions of the theater, including those of its language, he is doing something to destroy the hierarchical society that meets his disapproval.

But it seems to be in the nature of language that it imposes upon us its arbitrary universes, oppresses us, and permits us only such freedom as is consistent with its conditions. Handke rages against it, calling it a stupid pretense, saying +it expresses nothing but its own stupidity.+ The nausea which he says he feels, and which he compares to the nausea of Sartre's Roquentin about things, arises less from the brutalization of people by (the abuse of) language than from disgust at having to deal with the corrupt and systematic independence of language itself.

Hence for Handke language is what prevents us from being in the world as it is, a set of debilitating fictions. He is faithful to the puritanism of the avant-garde in general when he says that +the progress of literature consists of the gradual removal of unnecessary fictions,+ and his earliest effort was to destroy the fictions that are habitual in the theater. He sought to strip it of all its familiar trappings, going beyond the point where Beckett leaves off, trying to make audiences understand the +produced+ quality of what they were seeing, to abuse the theater and the audience too, in so far as it contributed to the theatrical fiction. In his early plays, there is no action, no character, no fourth wall; there are people in a room, and all that is happening is language. Of course the theater can be seen as a model of other forms of social lying, all dependent on language. Attack language, Handke seems to be saying, and you attack the root of evil.

Using language to attack language sets problems Handke is always aware of. His anti-theater is very theatrical, his anti-language has great linguistic and rhetorical resource. The words of his Sprechstuecke (+speak-ins+) are not, he explains, +pictures+; they point not to a world beyond them +but to the world in the words themselves.+ This words can do only by insisting on themselves as interesting, as opaque rather than transparent, exactly as the atheatrical quality of his plays requires constant reminders that we are in a theater and nowhere else. The expectations of the audience are constantly maintained by assertions that no conceivable curiosity or expectation of theirs may hope to be satisfied.

It may be the case that you expected what you are hearing now.

But even in that case you expected something different.

This is from Offending the Audience. The speakers, who divide the text arbitrarily between them, say: +We don't tell you a story. We don't perform any actions. We don't simulate any actions. We don't represent anything. We don't put anything on for you. We only speakÃ‚Â¦. This is no drama. No action that has occurred elsewhere is re-enacted here Ã‚Â¦we are not playing time. Time is for real here. We are not doing as if.+ They claim that their scrupulous observance of the unities makes the play strictly +classical+Ã‚Âa good historical joke. They end with a long abusive tirade against the status and expectations of the audience.

By constantly and aggressively challenging expectations Handke makes his anti-play playable, the anti-language speakable, intelligible to a language-corrupted audience. Self-Accusation, a less epatant piece, explains the process of corruption: one is born, one acquires with language desire and anxiety, one commits crimes indiscriminately social and linguistic. Offending the Audience is said to be based on rock style and rhythms; My Foot, My Tutor is all mime. But these are evasions; language, as game or disease, dominates the entire enterprise.

Kaspar consummates Handke's theatrical treatment of this topic. According to the author it is +anarchic, and negates everything it comes across. I don't care whether this yields a positive utopia.+ As his name suggests, Kaspar is a clown, a virtually speechless person with a difficult relation to objects. The play is based on a celebrated nineteenth-century event, the emergence of a man named Kaspar Hauser who had spent sixteen years in a closet and who knew only one sentence: +I want to be a cavalry officer as my father once was.+ Handke's Kaspar also knows one sentence but it is general and abstract: +I want to be a person like someone else was once.+ Kaspar emerges from the closet +incapable of correct perception,+ as Handke explains. He is unable to distinguish between two and three dimensions, and supposes that everything white is snow.

In Handke's play, prompters exhort Kaspar to use the one sentence he has as a model for generating others, and so find his way about the world. First he plays about with the sentence itself, without understanding its possibilities as a model. Then he acquires more phonemes, and by degrees comes to speak regular sentences. He can now control objects and establish order. For example, he can tie his shoelaces. But in liberating him from his world of prelinguistic terror, the prompters enslave him to society. Their instructions turn for Kaspar into slogans of acceptance: All suffering is natural, good order is the foundation of all things, you should feel responsible for the furniture. Now Kaspar's clothes are more orderly, and the stage looks, for the first time, like a room. He speaks poetry, reflecting the order he has found.

Now I know what I want:

I want

to be

quiet

and every object

that I find sinister

I designate as mine

so that it stops

being sinister to me.

But the order is phony. He learns metaphor and lying; he becomes rational and oppressed. +Already with my first sentence I was trappe. I have been made to speak. I have been converted to reality.+ Handke says the play could also be called Speech Torture.

Although Wittgenstein said that +to understand a sentence is to understand a language+ he went on to say that +to understand a language means to be a master of a technique.+ Handke's point is that in acquiring a delusive mastery one is mastered. At a time when linguistics and psychoanalysis are moving together again we should perhaps look to them rather than to Wittgenstein for clues to the nature of this extraordinary play; and perhaps we should also look to poetry. Mr. Gilman tells us that Verlaine, Hofmannsthal, and Trakl had all used the original Kaspar Hauser as a figure of the poet, the man who +does not know what he is to do in the world+ and is obsessed with the power, the limitations, and the opacity of language. Kaspar, like Handke's poems, is a word game.

Handke's poems, unfortunately too long to quote usefully, are much concerned with horror or fright (reactions produced more by language than by things) and also with such topics as singular and plural, the sociolinguistic circumstances in which one says +I+ and +mine+ and those in which one does not (+my cell+ but not +my prison,+ for instance). They are series of sentences bound together by linguistic and rhetorical devices of the kind that are currently interesting practitioners of +text-linguistics+ or +discourse-analysis.+ Above all they are encounters between the poet, a self-confessed traitor to silence, and his enemy the language.

The poems, and Kaspar, have a tension I can't find in The Ride Across Lake Constance, a play in which, as Gilman puts it, +people in 'real' life act as though they were cast in plays.+ The play is a series of gestures and routines existing as themselves, without reference to anything, occasionally establishing some ritual of social or sexual superiority. The actors, who have no names but their own, provide each other with identities, form relationships on the basis of the roles they force upon one another. Perhaps it would seem more interesting on stage; Handke is such a theatrical wizard that one ought to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Of the novels The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick is most immediately impressive. It is of course obsessed with language and the anxieties it induces; but despite this attention to its own medium of communication it is a highly wrought story about a character called Joseph Bloch. Even the title is part of the story, which expands the moment in which the goalkeeper waits for the shot he is supposed, but can barely hope, to save. It opens with a powerful but delusive and transient reminiscence of Kafka:

When Joseph Bloch, a construction worker who had once been a well-known soccer goalie, reported for work that morning, he was told that he was fired. At least that was how he interpreted the fact that no one except the foreman looked up from his coffee break when he appeared at the door of the construction shack, where the workers happened to be at that moment, and Bloch left the building site.

Bloch's dissociation, his difficulty with objects, is a consequence of language. Urban things assert themselves; there is a tedium of detail, of unimportant false inferences and frustrations, useless detours. Bloch is mugged in the Prater, but it means nothing. He takes a girl to her room and in the morning gratuitously kills her. +If the pressure of everything around him when his eyes were open was bad, the pressure of the words for everything out there when his eyes were closed was even worse.+ There is a murder hunt, but it makes very little impact; we are concerned rather with the way in which anxiety, represented as a disease of language, seeps into the text, a nausea induced by words and even sounds. +Bloch dropped in the cards. The empty mailbox resounded as they fell into it. But the mailbox was so tiny that nothing could resound in there. Anyway, Bloch had walked away immediately.+

Arriving at a frontier town, Bloch finds that there is a search for a missing boy who has a speech impediment; it turns out that all the children of the town are similarly afflicted. He himself begins to suffer from a +loathsome word-game sickness,+ nauseated by the treachery and absurdity of the words he speaks, by grammar, by the conventions of written language, by apparitions among things of such rhetorical devices as synecdoche (very important in Handke, for that things should stand for or imply other concealed things is a source of horror) and anaphora (including many repeated motifs, such as coins, apples, sponges, or meat falling, with no apparent relevance to the narrative).

There is a trick ending, well prepared; and yet we can no more take it at its narrative face value than we can suppose the repetitions of words and motifs have the kind of sense one would expect in a more normal novel. They are indices or symptoms of the language-disease. The book has frontiers with Kafka and with the nouveau roman, but its peculiar pathology makes it decisively different from either.

Short Letter is another matter, though again its principal character, the narrator, is in a dissociated state. He is traveling in the US, which he reports with an almost bizarre attention to detail; all the references are accurate from Greyhound buses to Braniff planes, and the routes are specified: +The bus took the Bruckner Expressway through the Bronx, turned off to the right, and crossed the Harlem River to Manhattan+ and so on down Fifth Avenue and to Forty-first Street; then a cab to the Algonquin. He has a compulsion not to leave things out, to imply or conceal nothing; a hyperamnesia ordinarily fatal to narrative, though not to this one.

There is a plot: his wife is trying to kill him. He joins an old lover and travels to St. Louis and Tucson with her and her child. This child has the capacity to take things as they are, not as representing something; she has language licked. But she cannot bear things to be partly open, car trunks, for example; things that seem to contain or suggest other things drive her into hysteria. Even a crooked pole, disturbing the regularity of a line of poles, distresses her; it is not comfortably redundant, it contains information, it may be a sign of what is not simply evident. She is growing up into a world diseased by its modes of communication, riddled with synecdoche. Juke-boxes and movies send out their messages; an itinerant Austrian dramaturge attacks people who +have words for everything.+ We leave the hero and his wife temporarily reunited and deep in conversation with the wise and real John Ford, who tells them:

+It's your thoughts you want people to get a glimpse of, not your idiosyncrasies. One day you tell the truth, and you're startled. You're so happy you can't bear it; you try to tell the truth again, and then of course you lie. I still lie,+ said John Ford. +Two seconds ago I knew what I wanted, but now I've lost it. I'm happy only when I know exactly what I want. Then I'm so happy I feel as if there were no teeth in my mouth.+

They then tell Ford their story, swearing that it is true

The blurb speaks of an +unobtrusive structure of metaphor and symbol,+ but the markers of this structure are ironically placed. The puritanical Handke is reduced to telling the truth but foxing it with opacities. So, too, in A Sorrow Beyond Dreams. It is an account of the life and suicide of Handke's mother and it cannot help being sad; but the material must submit to the process of writing words, to a man +alienated from himself and transformed into an object, a remembering and formulating machine.+ In speaking of his mother he is remembering and formulating his own +moments of extreme speechlessness.+

There is a narrative; it tells how the mother was worn down by social pressures from a person to a type, and from a type to a nonentity.

As it wore off, her illness became an affectation; now she only played at being sick. She pretended that her head was in a muddle as a defense against her thoughts, which had become clear again; for, once her head was perfectly clear, she could only regard herself as an individual case and the consolation of belonging to a group was no longer available to her. She exaggerated her forgetfulness and absent-mindedness in order to be encouraged, when she finally did remember or show that she had understood everything perfectly, with a +You see! You're much better now!+Ã‚Âas though all the horror had consisted in losing her memory and being unable to join in the conversation.

But the narrative cannot be let alone; it is punctuated by interruptions that comment on the problems of narrating, say on the danger of merely telling what happened, or the danger of submerging a human being in sentences, or the danger of selling out to one's own horror when extreme need to communicate coincides with extreme speechlessness. The +idiocy+ of his mother's life becomes his own idiocy, and the story becomes an account of his own horror, characterized as horror vacui: the source of the very language he uses, in all its fallibility and corruption, is now frozen.

New readers of Handke might do well to start with Sorrow, for here his deviations are less puzzling and better marked than in the early plays. Certainly he is not to be thought of only as a playwright; his place is wherever language needs to be examined or purged. He has the fertility and the resource to maintain himself alive in this extraordinary combat. Perhaps Handke is a little preoccupied with his own originality, and with the specificity of his own terrors. He nevertheless offers, with prodigality, evidence that the obsessions of modernism still afford the possibility of greatness.